Welcome reader. I guess I will have to learn to write
prefaces and now is a good time. People say, “Write what you know.” In the near
future, I plan to publish a novel about child abuse, child abusers, and abused
children--a subject I know all too well. I was sexually abused as a child. Child
molesters, not the ‘straight community’, were the first to welcome me to
Mexico. I never had to search for ‘kiddy porn’ on the internet. I just opened
my door and in walked my subjects. That story will certainly need a preface. I
digress.
This story is an equal opportunity offender, so I may end
up with a negative number of readers. It offends Born-Again Christians, women,
men, the military, soldiers, the YMCA, skid rows, bigots, drug pushers, military
contractors, sex addicts, information agents, crackers, heroes, Louisianans,
homosexuals, neo-hippies, drug addicts, Catholics, Jack Mormons, Mexico, et al.
Then, it seems to find redemption when something beautiful blossoms in a heart
of darkness.
At first glance, the story superficially appears centered
around the Onizuka Air Base. It is what I know, having supported it for three
decades. It does not help, that the first ten per cent of the story, which is
all that Amazon allows me to give away free on my blog
(charlietaberjackson.blogspot.com (Ravenland)), does center around the air base,
back when the mostly empty egg carton was named the Air Force Satellite Test
Center. I hope that the FBI can cope with my new middle name, Taber. It is a
real inconvenience for a person with a common name to come up with a unique id
(joeblowsmith666). I also assign GPS coordinates to any blog post, within
reason. I found that all I needed was to give Google ‘onizuka air’ to get an
x-ray view of the compound. I clicked on coordinates that were true a few score
years ago. The uppermost cover photograph is of the NASA/Ames/Lockheed/Moffett
complex, taken with my long Celestron lens from a levee out in the bay. I never
took a photograph of the ‘Blue Cube’ because I love my liberty and freedom.
Besides, it is not very photogenic.
This story is really about ‘Earnest,’ a construct of the
personalities of half a dozen people, including myself. I had to construct him,
because nobody really knew the person who inspired him. He appeared with his
medals. He vanished into thin air. Some said he appeared again. Almost all
anybody knew of him are contained in those three sentences. And yet, he changed
my life completely. So, I had to write about him.
I find that most people lead tediously boring lives. Some
writers might give such a creature a cape and superhuman powers, and write a
graphic novel. I take his perceived characteristics, such as zealousness, and
swap them out for the known characteristics of an extremist, such as super
zealousness, and I have a person who throws his Bible on the floor of the YMCA kitchen when his best friend tries to explain
to him the blasphemous story, ‘It’s a Wonderful Life.’ I repeated this process
with good and bad characteristics until I created a conflicted person--a person
seen through dream filters, asking to be both loved and hated. It worked for
me. I began writing about a demon. I ended writing about a prince.
Nevertheless, this story was a joy to write. Within the
constraints that he had to appear, vanish and reappear (kind of like Jesus); he
was a blank slate. Since he was fiction, I could subject him to all kinds of
situations--building on my experience of building a novel out of a hitchhiker’s
twenty-minute tale, in ‘Pfeiffer.’ I let the story write itself, editing it in
subsequent drafts. My muse named my subject Earnest. I trusted it until this
afternoon, not being a thesaurus geek. I am surprised. Spelling it with an ‘a’
disassociated him from any real or imagined person and linked him intuitively
to the adjectives my conscious mind was too stupid to apply: serious, sincere,
solemn, heartfelt, grave, deep, sober, intense, strong, and definitely not
frivolous. These qualities I applied liberally to an otherwise simple, Bible
thumping, country bumpkin. So, he had strength to endure kidnapping, drug
induced nightmares, and bisexual encounters--enough to drive a lesser
born-again to contemplate suicide. But, this marine had survived Viet Nam and
returned in a catatonic state as a presumed hero. He was up to it. I questioned
the irreverent sadistic trials that I put this loyal marine through. Nevertheless,
this battle-built warrior would never have missed work unless he were betrayed
by a friend, drugged, abducted, and dumped in stupor in a public place in a
state worse than naked.
There is a story within this story. I thoroughly enjoyed
writing, let’s call it, ‘Independents,’ because it deals with the confluence of
the FBI, drug running, Mexico, the Federales, the Zapatistas, chupacabras and
surprising gun battles. FBI agents Harvey, a Scott with a Sean Connery lisp, and
Melvin, a skeptical Jew, finally track down Earnest in Golden Gate Park. To
reward them, the FBI puts them on a one-year, unpaid. leave of absence, to get
straight or find new employment. It seems that they had developed a lack of
respect for The Establishment, become addicted to pot, and acquired certain
STDs while hobnobbing with the gay and neo-hippy communities. They decide to go
over to the other side. They had neglected to turn over the dozier they had
developed on Tom, El Cid’s drug trafficker. They dummy some IDs and grab a bus
to Nogales. From Nogales, they enter the world of Los Moches, las chupacabras,
La Ciudad, las señoritas, Catholics, volcanoes, hurricanes, Federales and
Zapatistas. I would like to emphasize that, except for landmarks, state and
city names, all people, places, and events in this sub-story are fiction and for
your entertainment.
Each story in this novel contains at least one love story.
Amongst my plans for the future are to publish expanded
versions of this Mexican sequence and the Labor Day sequence from ‘Ishi Pishi’
in my first book of short stories.
The characters in this story are exaggerated composites of
eccentrics. By and large, the preponderance of people in the Blue Cube are
boringly normal. The same should be said of all social segments portrayed here,
including the good residents of Lake County and the YMCA. Nevertheless, that
wouldn’t be much fun, would it?
☼
The Russians are hoping that I’ll spill the beans. The CIA
is afraid that I already have. They just don’t know what I stole. My ex-boss
‘knows’ I stole a case of glue sticks. Even if I had, it fails to compare to
the homemade, $2,200 computer and printer that I smuggled in from home so that
I could at least pretend to do my job. Somebody must have seen me throw the
oversized printer in the dumpster when the contract ran out. I took two glue
sticks from supply, one for my desk drawer and one for my briefcase. Years
later, I threw away both sticks--dried up and unused.
They hired an unattractive, middle-aged Mexican woman for
receptionist. Since I like Mexicans, I greeted her with “bien venido.” She
accused me of bigotry. She was not a Mexican! I have since learned that this is
a typical Filipina response. She setup her desk, proudly displaying a set of
books on how to get ahead by screwing your coworkers. She repeatedly called in
our market-timing 401(k) requests days late. She accused me of sexual harassment
when I sent her e-mails confirming my presence at the prime contractor’s
office. In Spanish, I wrote, “the ugly stick is across the street,” which
apparently translates into slum dog Filipina as, “the ugly penis is waiting in
the bushes to rape you.”
Anyway, after pleading guilty to stealing ‘paperclips,’
they still mistrusted me. So, I blew off the CIA by recounting a recurrent
dream from decades past.
“One day in Tijuana, I remember observing several groups
of pretty, young Chinese-Mexican girls ascending stairs from the street. I
followed them into a great hall. I sampled the many dishes of sumptuous food.
Looking about to discover the reason for the banquet, I discerned a giant portrait
of Mao Tse Tung.”
I told them that I had difficulty discerning whether it
was a dream or really happened, in the mist of time. Of course, I knew it was a
dream. I was 59 years old and seven years into a personal work slowdown to
protest the lack of raises and the destruction of benefits that we all suffered
from. I knew I was going to be let go. So, I wanted to have fun with it.
My ‘son’ says I’m a liar. He says I can’t tell the same
story twice. I am guilty. I enjoy telling stories. As an agnostic, relativist,
evolutionist, secular humanist, and pragmatic socialist, I see reality through
many views--I don’t just run in circles muttering, “What would Jesus do?” When
I write on a subject, many factors are considered.
Who is my intended audience? If my son asks me, how come I
left his mother, the only true answer is that I did not. I can choose to
elaborate. She left me, repeatedly! The last time, she drained our bank account,
kidnapped my 3-year old daughter. When she wrote to me three months later
expecting child support and announcing the expected delivery of ‘my’ son in six
months, I served her with divorce papers. She can elaborate, on why she left
me, but she cannot say I abandoned my family.
What is the subject? When asked if I use, or ever have
used, marijuana, I say that I never have. Sure, I might have had a few ounces,
but it was used to gain access to characters, whom I hoped someday to write
about. In the same manner, I ‘used’ methyl ethyl ketone to clean large steel
aircraft assemblies at the Downey North American Aviation plant, which is the
probable triggering mechanism for my Parkinson’s, so that I could retain
employment and work on the Apollo spacecraft ablative heat shield. I object to
the wholesale references to marijuana exposure as using, recreating, or
experimenting. I interpret the question as, “Tell us if there is any reasonable
doubt that you may have drug problems at some future point in time.” I am about
as clean as a person gets, but I could point fingers at people working in
highly secure environments. I know better than to come forward. Once, I revealed
to an egocentric boss that his people were plotting against him. He thought I
was lying, passed me up on promotions, and became closer to ‘his’ people. His
wife even accused me of trying to sabotage his career. So much for trusting
authority.
What was my point of view at the time? I have, since
researching my 10,000-entry genealogy, become highly introspective and self-critical.
Rear-vision is 20-20. I now understand, looking back on my timeline, how I gave
up on the church. Born and christened an Episcopalian, I don’t recall attending
church until I was about ten years old. That’s when my mother joined the
Presbyterian church so she could attend services with her friend, who was
married to a Lebanese Jew. When Mother died, I went to live in Morningside Park
with my first foster family. I joined the Evangelical and Reformed Church.
There, an assistant pastor revealed that Christ’s physical miracles might have
really been psychological miracles. Nevertheless, looking back on the ‘50s
events from the time-compressing distance of the 2010s, one thing becomes
clear. The ‘40s stole the magic from my life when Father died. The ‘60s broke
my heart when I had to walk away from my true love, Virginia, due to
joblessness, her brother-in-law, the Pope, and my own failure to properly
prepare myself in high school. The ‘50s blindsided me, as if I were t-boned by
a speeding locomotive. I entered the decade with a questioning mind and raging
hormones--holding good grades. Before long, I became the class clown, running around
campus with a stupid grin and dropping one-liners. I had been assaulted by the
old man in the one place I was vulnerable. My church had come forward with a
foster home that harbored a child molester. For years after, I broke into
rages, whenever I was left alone, shrieking “Why me God! Why me!” I quit the
church. I quit believing.
In what predicament did I find myself? It was prom night.
The door opened. Anne was beautiful. She was Scholarship Society. She did not
need this. Seconds stretched to infinities. Suddenly, everyone realize--I had
no orchid. I had not forgotten. Gas and cigarettes were cheap. I had given up
shoplifting when I lived with my uncle. I thought I could save my weekly
allowance. There was not enough time. Corsages had to be ordered in advance,
with a deposit. Nothing would do but the truth.
☼
Incidentally, while I have your attention, I would like to
comment on these exciting times, as I prepare to publish. CNN just announced
this that this Thanksgiving week is the worst Thanksgiving week for the stock
market since 1932. Chinese industrialists are liquidating their industrial
plants. Italy is teetering on bankruptcy. Downgraded U.S. bonds are selling
because they are the only game in town, except for gold. Actually, corporate
profits grow at the cost of chronic unemployment. The nation is so divided,
that there is a new ‘Donut Hole,’ the chasm between the most liberal
Republicans and the most conservative Democrats. As the Tea Party holds armed
rallies and the Occupiers occupy the financial centers, can ‘revolution’ be far
off?
What does all this divisiveness have to do with my
writing? Just this! Literary power brokers to hitchhikers, ask about my genre
and audience.
The Ninety-Nine Per Cent are my target audience. I want
those who question authority; those who suffer elder, spousal, institutional,
mental, physical, sexual, or child abuse; the disenfranchised; the
impoverished; the sick, lame, or dying; and those falsely accused or imprisoned.
I like those few who reach across the class chasm to tell
the truth, such as the rich conservative ‘Oracle of Omaha,’ Warren Buffett, and
the, grounded in socialism and become popular futurist, Alvin Toffler. American
society stands at a crucial point of history. We can turn right and return to
sweat shops. Republicans are already asking for the repeal of child labor laws
and abandonment of the crippled and needy who depend on Social Security (“Just
let them die!”). Already, the people are marching in the streets bearing the
standards of Communism, Nazism, racism, and anarchism.
It only takes ten per cent to stage a revolution.
President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, a wealthy man, offered the American
people, the New Deal, not to promote socialism, but to protect the Union. He
realized that the Great Depression was exacting extreme grief on the workers of
the nation. Rather than say “Let them eat cake!” and inciting a destructive
revolution; he offered to help them find food, work, and the hope of
participating in the American Dream. It’s time to save the masses, again; and
in doing so, save the Union. As we go forward, let us be cautious to prevent
our ushering in a more tyrannical oligarchy than we already have. Let’s not
forget how Hitler and Stalin rode into power on the fears of the masses. Our
democracy needs a few tweaks, not a sledgehammer. We need to evolve, not
revolt.
In the course of time, technology is backing us into an
age of mass unemployment. We need smart social designers to reshape how we
think about our roles in society.
As for genre, as a nonconformist, I object. If you can
check out a non-genre expressionist narrative from a major movie discounter, how
come it has to be searched for as general fiction in book format. Genre books
have tight formulaic rules. The worst offenders are ‘romance’ novels. First of
all, they should not be called romance novels. Romantic might be more
appropriate, as this genre focuses entirely on love passion. It fails to
include stories on the romance of the old west or the romance of the clipper
ship. Look it up in your Funk and Google. Secondly, most romance novels are no
larger than a novella. Then the romance writer has to write to a specific
sub-genre. Romantic sub-genre guidelines strictly dictate the contents allowed:
flirtation, handholding, embraces, stolen kisses, disrobing, coitus, teen sex,
premarital sex, adultery, prostitution, ad nauseum.
Only children’s books require more discipline. You have to
write to a certain age, a certain educational level, a certain vocabulary, and politically
correct. Meeting all these conditions only allows you to make pennies on the
dollars you could make for a novel. Further, you’ll probably only publish in a
monthly and they will probably want illustrations.
☼
Now, if you’re still there, here’s hoping you enjoy my
little story.
Charlie Jackson
January 18, 2012
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